Given Circumstances
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: Third part in the Jack Holmes Series. David McGuiness, thespian of traveling troupe fame, has disappeared. But could this missing person case be more than it seems? And can Holmes and Watson solve it alone? COMPLETE!
1. Ms Hannah Brooke

Chapter One: Miss Hannah Brooke  
  
"You've been an actress for most of your life," I said as I poured some tea into a rounded cup for our guest. "You parents got you started early, playing minor roles for children and you eventually moved your way up until you've reached a great peak in your career: playing Ophelia in the production of Hamlet in Hyde Park."  
  
"Mr. Holmes!" cried Ms. Brooke, taking her cup of tea in her hand. "How on earth could you know? I have heard that you just recently moved to London!" I smirked and held up yesterday's paper. It was open to an inner page with a column about the stage-less performance in the park. Her face flushed.  
  
"The press seems quite fond of you, Ms. Brooke. It says here," I turned the paper toward me, "that your troupe is full of young people like yourself, traveling all over the country, performing in parks like our lovely Hyde Park. It also says that last night was to be your first performance of Shakespeare's Hamlet." I scanned the article, trying to find anything remarkable about the play at all that would cause her to come to me. "But what of your friend David McGuiness?" I glanced up, and to my surprise, I saw the woman's eyes full of tears.  
  
"That's why I've come here, Mr. Holmes. You see, David and I were engaged." He presented her left and, and a shining golden ring set with a diamond sparkled on her ring finger. I took her hand and admired the gem closely.  
  
"You use the past tense when referring to it," I told her, setting her hand back in her lap. "Why is that? Did something happen to sour your relationship?" Her face flushed again, and she shook her head quickly.  
  
"Oh no, Mr. Holmes, nothing like that. David and I were very much in love. After the shows, he would take me to dinner, and we would laugh over the smallest things. No, it wasn't that our relationship changed. Maybe," she said, reaching for a tissue to dab at her eyes with, "I should start at the beginning."  
  
"Tell me everything, for even the slightest detail may prove the most important," I told the woman, leaning back in my chair and folding my hands in my lap. I could see Watson, sitting to my left, take up his pencil, ready to write down anything to woman had to say. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Mr. Richardson hobbled into the front room and his eyes rested upon the beautiful woman sitting across from me. A smile leapt over his craggy features.  
  
"Well, young Holmes," Richardson said, turning to me. "It seems you're quite the charmer, bringing such a fine young lady under our roof within the week!" This time I felt the blood rush to my own cheeks, and I shot up out of my seat.  
  
"No, no, Mr. Richardson, it's not what it seems! I- I-"  
  
"Mr. Holmes is advising me on a problem," Ms. Brooke said with a smile, "just as his advertisement suggested. 'Jack Holmes, private detective.' I assure you that I'm not here for the reason you suspect." Richardson's smile did not leave his face.  
  
"If you say so, young lady. I'll leave you three to your business. But Holmes," he said, giving me a sharp eye, "don't expect many a happy greeting if you have all types of rogues roaming about our flat." With that, the man left us, and I sank back down into my chair. Ms. Brooke's previously melancholy face was seized by a wide smile.  
  
"He seems charming," she suggested. I rolled my eyes.  
  
"He is a fine man, but he is as stubborn and obstinate as a mule at times." I sighed and cracked my neck slightly. "Anyway, you were about to tell me from the beginning, I believe." She nodded.  
  
"Yes, of course. David. You see, Mr. Holmes, we had just come from a successful run of Romeo and Juliet in Wales, and we were going to have an encore presentation in London, but David wanted to try something new. Romeo and Juliet had always been our fallback piece, for we all have the play memorized front to back to front again and we've been getting rather good at it. But I think that David was getting rather bored of playing Benvolio while Gerald had the role of Romeo opposite me. This was before David and I were engaged, mind you. It was on our return journey to London when he proposed. I-" she paused, wiping her eyes tenderly. "We practiced until our hearts and lungs had all but burst. David was finally to play the title role, after all his years of waiting.  
  
"David and I worked together for hours on end, fine tuning Hamlet's soliloquy late into the night. It was his pride and joy, that soliloquy. One night, just before we were to turn in, he took my hand and recited Romeo's pledge of love to Juliet, slipping his ring on my finger. I couldn't say no, Mr. Holmes. I love him. After that night, he practiced more and more, saying his lines with more bravado than he had ever shown. He told me night after night that this would be the play to make his career. Every time he ran through the soliloquy, his eyes would mist over, so much of his heart was in it. I didn't think that there would be a dry eye present when we presented it.  
  
"We arrived in London three days ago and we did nothing but practice and eat between acts. Yesterday's weather was perfect for the presentation, and the play was perfect as well, all up to the Third Act. I remember seeing David just after the second act had ended, and wishing him the best of luck and a kiss. He promised to-" her face clouded, and one great tear rolled down her cheek. "He promised that he would make me proud. We began the first scene of the third act, and all was going well, until I was left alone, waiting for Hamlet to enter and deliver his soliloquy. I waited for five full minutes, standing alone and solitary in front of all those eyes, waiting for my beloved David to come and give his dearest soliloquy. He never came," Hannah Brooke cried, throwing her face into her hands, "he never came, he never came!" The silence was punctuated by her quiet sobbing. I held my hand to my chin in thought.  
  
'Inquire as to why Mr. McGuiness is not at war,' Holmes suggested. I nodded.  
  
"Ms. Brooke, if I may be so bold as to ask, why was Mr. McGuiness not at war? He was of the age, am I correct?"  
  
"Yes, David is 25. He stays at home because he is the last man in his family. All of his sisters would be alone, for their father died in that terrible First World War, along with their grandfather and uncles. David is all they have in the world, for all four are still only children. They travel with our troupe, and David, along with most of the troupe, provides for them."  
  
'Ask her about the feelings of the troupe toward our Hamlet,' Holmes told me.  
  
"Were there any people within the troupe who felt ill will toward Mr. McGuiness?" I asked. Ms. Brooke shook her head.  
  
"No, David is well liked. Most of the women, especially his youngest sister Alice, were in tears when the news of his disappearance spread through the troupe. They sent Gerald, his best friend, to Scotland Yard, and I happened to notice your advertisement in the paper this morning. I thought that maybe you could help us. Please Mr. Holmes," she clutched her hands together and wrung them nervously. "I need to find my David." I patted her hand reassuringly.  
  
"Do not worry, my dear. I believe we have all of the information we need. First, I have something for you to do for me."  
  
"Anything!" she cried, rising to her feet. I followed in suit.  
  
"You must round up all of those in your troupe for me. I must see all of them at one time. No excuses, I must see them all, even the children. Tell them to congregate at the exact location where Hamlet took place. Then you must return here and take us to them. Does that sound reasonable?" I asked. She nodded.  
  
"Yes, it sounds wonderful. Oh, I cannot thank you enough for helping us, Mr. Holmes! I know that you'll find my David!" She grabbed my hand and shook it firmly, her grip tight and painful. I winced, but she failed to notice as she walked briskly through the door, muttering all of the locations at which she could find her friends. Watson stood from his own chair and stuck his pencil over his ear again, as he used to. Looking at his notes, he tried to surmise the outcome of the mystery.  
  
"Perhaps he forgot his lines and ran off before he could embarrass himself?" His bright brown eyes flashed up to mine, and I shook my head.  
  
"According to Ms. Brooke, Mr. McGuiness put his life and soul into portraying Hamlet. I do not think that he could simply up and forget possibly the most famous lines of the entire play. No, I don't think that he skipped off on his own. If he did just escape from the play, he would have reported back to his friends and sisters. A man with four young girls to care for doesn't just leave without any further notice, let alone a fiancee. Watson, what do you say to breakfast?" His head cocked to one side, an eyebrow raising in disbelief.  
  
"What about the case?" he asked. I smirked, taking my wallet from my back pocket and counting my money slowly and carefully. Probably enough to feed Watson and myself downtown.  
  
"For one thing, the troupe of travelers is most likely spread over all of London in search of their Hamlet. Secondly, I need a good walk in the morning to jog my brain into thinking. Thirdly, I am starving and Mr. Richardson is far too fond of prunes for my liking. Come on, Watson. It's my treat." His lips pulled into a thin line, as if contemplating, and then he shrugged and pocketed his notebook.  
  
"If it will take that long to find all of the players, then I suppose that it wouldn't hurt to slip out for a bite to eat." I clapped my friend on the back.  
  
"That's the spirit, Watson," I told him as I walked toward the door. Suddenly, I remembered Mr. Richardson. "Wait at the postbox for me. I need to speak with Richardson." I dashed back inside and knocked upon the door to Mr. Richardson's room.  
  
"I'm decent, come in," he muttered. I opened the door and stepped inside to see our caretaker scrawling a letter to someone in his strangely flowery hand. He turned his head to me and smiled. "What was the young lady's problem, young Holmes?"  
  
"Her fiancee has gone missing, and she has asked me to find him for her." I sat upon Richardson's bed and pretended to be tying my shoes.   
  
"It's quite an easy case compared to what you've dealt with before, isn't it?" He asked, going back to his letter. I shrugged.  
  
"A missing person is a welcome reprieve from putting 27-year-old mysteries to rest. But I think it is not quite as simple as it seems. While Ms. Brooke rounds up the members of our troupe, Watson and I have decided to sneak out for a bit of breakfast, if that is all right with you." Richardson stood, gritting his teeth at the pain in his ankle bullet wound. Before I knew what had happened, he whipped out his wallet and placed thirty pounds in my hands.  
  
"That ought to be enough," he said as he patted my shoulder.   
  
"Mr. Richardson, you don't have to-"  
  
"I've told you that you can call me Neville." He shook his head sadly, and looked back to me. "Jack... Can I call you Jack...?"  
  
"S-sure," I said, still feeling a twinge of pain at the sound of someone other than my father or Holmes calling me by my first name.  
  
"Jack, you've only known me for about a week, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"So you're probably wondering why I'm being so damned nice to you and your friend Watson."  
  
"Maybe a little."  
  
"Truth is, you two saved my life back at the Ostendorf Inn. I'm not the kind of man to let that go un-rewarded. Any time you kids need money, just come to me. I want you to be able to do what you want, so you don't have to come to me for permission. Don't think of me like I'm your father or anything. Just a friend. Got that?" A smile crept over my face.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Oh, and Jack?" he called, as I was about to leave his room.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"If... If something was to happen to me, for any reason at all, I'd want you two to have everything."  
  
"You shouldn't talk like that," I said, my eyebrows furrowing.   
  
"Just in case," Richardson told me as he sat back down at his desk. "Just in case." Staring back into the room for only and instant, I turned on my heel and dashed back outside to meet Watson for our stroll downtown. 


	2. The Baker Street Irregulars

Chapter Two: The Baker Street Irregulars  
  
The day had turned dreary and blustery, and I threw a large woolen scarf around my neck and pulled it close around me. Watson squinted against the bombardment of the wind and turned his face up to me.  
  
"The wind's so strong, I can almost hear the fighting in Germany!" Watson said over the howling wind. I pulled my neck into my shoulders in attempts to keep my face from being torn off by the gusts. I still had the money from Mr. Richardson clutched in my hands, seeing as I forgot to stick it in my wallet. There was the slap of bare feet on the pavement, and I turned to look behind me. Nothing. Shrugging I returned to looking forward.  
  
"Where were you planning on eating?" I asked Watson. The boy slumped his shoulders.  
  
"I've never been to London. I wouldn't know what kinds of establishments they run here." I realized that this was the truth for me as well. Holmes laughed.  
  
"And just what is so funny?" I asked him quietly, feeling my stomach growl in hungry unrest.  
  
'I realized that everywhere I ate when Watson and I lived here on Baker Street is most likely long gone. It has been a long time since I have lived here,' he told me in a quiet voice.  
  
"What was that about?" Watson asked, rubbing his arms to keep them full of warmth.  
  
"Sherlock doesn't know where to eat either," I told him shortly, keeping my voice low in case anyone might happen to listen in on our conversation. Again, I heard the low sound of feet behind me. I turned quicker this time, but still I saw nothing but empty street. I turned back to face the front.  
  
"What's wrong, Holmes?" Watson asked, glancing behind us as well.  
  
"I could have sworn I heard-"  
  
The attack came from all sides at once. There were blurs of black, blue and brown approaching from every which way. I shielded my face with my hands, and suddenly, I was face-down on the sidewalk. I could vaguely hear Watson call out something, and then a stampede of feet thundering away from us. My back ached and my head was throbbing. Forgetting the pain, and realizing the money from Mr. Richardson was missing, I pushed myself from the ground and took off running after the sound of feet.  
  
I couldn't see anything, but the sound of stampeding feet was ahead of me by a fair bit. I pushed on an extra spurt of speed, hearing our attackers turning sharply into a side alley. I turned not too soon after and ran straight into a warm body covered in yards of fabric. I grabbed onto whatever it was, and as soon as I latched onto the thing, the sound of feet ceased immediately. There was dead silence.  
  
I looked at the creature in my hands. I was shocked to find that it was a small girl, probably no older than 8 years of age. Her mess of thick, ratty blonde hair was sticking from her skull in every odd direction possible. Her large blue eyes were misty with tears. The lumps of fabric on her person were what I assumed were her clothes, but they merely looked like bits of shirts, pants or burlap bags sewn together haphazardly. Her face was covered in grime, and so were her clenched hands and bare feet. Then the tears started to trickle down her dirty cheeks.  
  
A rock struck my head, almost causing me to lose my hold on the urchin girl. I looked around me, at the pile of refuse strewn about the unused alley and found nothing. Then another rock came.  
  
"Hoy!" came a voice, followed by a particularly large rock. "Let go of Judy, you rotter!" Suddenly, there was a barrage of stones, all of them pelting my body. The girl in my hands sobbed softly.  
  
"Give me back my money and I'll let her free!" I tried to bargain. I didn't know where they were, but I knew that they had my money. Then I realized where they were hiding. I turned my face upwards, and I saw at least a dozen children crouching on the fire escapes above my head, hand-made slings in most of their hands. They were glaring death at me, for I held one of their own captive in my hands. One boy, with ebony-black hair, stood from where he crouched looking at me.  
  
"A little rich boy don't need no money," he said, using poor grammar that made me wince. "We need to eat breakfast." There was a murmur of agreement from the rabble surrounding him. "So we're keepin' your money, and you're gonna give back Judy or we'll fight you for her." I looked again to the silently weeping blonde girl in my hands. I felt her shivering in my hands, whether from the cold or the fear, I couldn't be sure.  
  
I wasn't sure what made me do what I did next. Maybe it had been Holmes. Maybe it had been something in my subconscious. Maybe it was my morals. All I know was, without second thought, I dashed from my spot, the girl still held firmly in my arms.   
  
"Ronald!!" She shouted at the top of her lungs. There was a cacophony of yells from behind me as I turned back onto Baker Street, and I could tell that they were following me. Before I knew it, I was passing Watson, who had recently recovered, on the street. He called after me, then shouted in surprise as the horde of street children came dashing after me. I changed a glance over my shoulder, and I could see them running faster with each step. I pushed myself, wishing only to outrun them long enough to get to our flat. Watson was running as well, as I could single out his shoed footsteps from the myriad of barefooted children behind me. I could see the flat, I was running up the stairs, I was so close to the door...  
  
I slammed the door behind me and locked it as fast as I could, the girl named Judy tucked in the nook of my arm. Only moments later, there was a great pounding on my door, and screams from the other side of it. The girl was squirming in my arms, and, as gently as I could, I sat her down at our dinner table. She sat in silence, dumbfounded. I set a plate in front of her and ladled the left-over mashed potatoes from dinner the night before onto her plate. I feared that she may have dived into her plate had I given her the fork a moment later. She ate as if she had been starved for weeks, which, I told myself, was probably the case. The pounding on the door did not subside as I watched the girl eat ravenously. Richardson limped into the room, his face a pale vision of fear.  
  
"What in the name of the Seven Hells is going on out there?!" he bellowed. Judy jumped and hid under the table like a rabbit. The pounding continued. I turned to my caretaker and sighed.  
  
"Mr. Richardson, may I present one of the urchins who stole my money. Her name is Judith. Her friends are outside, and you may want to step out of sight for a moment." Judy slowly emerged from under the table and began consuming the potatoes again. I strode to the door, waited until Mr. Richardson followed my instructions, and opened the door wide. The rabble, confused for only a moment, tore into the foyer with a yell. Soon after, they stopped moving altogether. They were all staring at their friend, who was breakfasting on mashed potatoes. There was a rather large smile on her dirty face as she stuck the last forkful into her mouth.  
  
"More, please!" she said cheerfully, holding the plate out to me. I emerged from behind the door, taking the plate and adding another dollop to the licked-clean plate. The children near the door shuffled nervously, as if afraid to move. The only sounds came from the eating at the dinner table. Finally, the black-haired boy, who I presumed was the "Ronald" that Judy had called to, stepped forward, looking at his feet.  
  
"D'you... D'you think... Could we have...?" He seemed unable to complete a full sentence, but I saw his meaning when he held out his hand and all of my money and my billfold were sitting undisturbed in his palm. I took the money, and offered the children seats at our table. And for those who could not fit at the table, they sat directly on the floor. I pulled whatever I could find out of our stores, trying to give the starving children an adequate meal. Just as I handed a plateful of green beans to a rather small boy, Watson charged into the room, chest heaving and fists balled in defense. Upon seeing our attackers eating in our flat, he became very articulate all at once.  
  
"Holmes, these are the ruffians that attacked us! They stole our money! Look at the bruise they gave me! Could have broken my arm! Look at the state of them! The carpet's a mess! Holmes I-"  
  
"Watson," I said calmly, providing Judy with another helping of mashed potatoes, "Calm down, you'll scare the children." His face grew red. "Besides," I came closer and lowered my voice so as not to be heard by the children. "I think I have a use for them."  
  
"What could they possibly help you with?" Watson answered, his voice louder than expected. Ronald held his head up proudly from where he sat next to Judy.  
  
"I can climb father and run better than you can," he told Watson. "Billy can shoot a sling stone 10 meters to a target. Judy and Ruthy know all the best places to find scraps and money. Norman knows just about everyone in London..."  
  
"Hold, Ronald!" I said with a laugh. "I have a deal- no, a promise- to make with all of you." I knelt down onto the floor, sitting amongst the eating children. They all chewed their food while their grimy faces looked up at mine. "Every Monday and Wednesday, if you come to my door, I can give food to each and every one of you. The only thing that I ask in return is-"  
  
"You want us to help you do detective things," Ronald said, licking not only his plate clean, but the plate of those around him. In answer to the confused look I gave him, he smiled. "Even us orphans can read a newspaper sometimes." He set down his plate and walked over to me, sticking out his dirt-encrusted hand. "I'm Ronald, and you're Jack Holmes. I heard about what you and weasel-boy over there did," he said, indicating Watson. Watson gritted his teeth in reply. "Me and my friends know the streets better than the guys what put 'em there. If you give us food like you say you will, I know I'll help."  
  
"Me too!"  
  
"And me!"  
  
"Free food!"  
  
"Free good food!"  
  
It seemed that every child agreed, their mucky faces bright with joy and food. I felt it then. The same feeling I'd had when Watson had told me that he, too, heard someone inside of him. It was a feeling as if I was seeing an old photograph, aged by dust and time. I could see these children, only that they weren't the same children. Something told me that it was Holmes' doing. I smiled.  
  
"And what should I call all of you?" I asked, looking at the group on the whole.  
  
'The Baker Street Irregulars,' Holmes whispered. The name triggered a familiar feeling that stirred my heart.  
  
"The Baker Street Irregulars." 


	3. Meeting the Players

AN: There is no reaonable explination I can give for delaying this story this long other than saying that, "I had writer's block," which, I know, is not good enough. I prostrate myself at your feet and ask you to spare my life, for I know that it took far too long for this chapter to come. You may kill me if you wish, but make it quick: I hate pain. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this chapter, and I hope that I can live to write more.... PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!  
  
**Chapter Three: Meeting the Players**  
  
I had no idea how the rascal had talked me into it.  
  
My stomach was gnawing at my insides, for Watson and I had decided to skip breakfast. Finding and taming the Irregulars had taken most of the time that I had hoped to spend eating. Most of the scamps had been delighted to scamper off into the alleyways to search for anything of usefulness, but there was one that refused to leave my side.  
  
"Oh, come off it, old man," Ronald protested as I locked the door to the flat behind me. He was standing beside Watson, who was trying his best not to box the child about his ears. "I could help you out better'n this old lummox!" He pointed his thumb violently at Watson. My compatriot's ears were red with blush. I stuck the key into my pocket, and glared pointedly at Ronald.  
  
"Little man," I began, "this 'lummox' has saved my life before, and I am not about to trade him in for a street urchin with whom I have a pact sealed with food."  
  
"I agreed to help you out if I get food, and I mean to carry it out!" Ronald stamped his foot as if to get the point across more forcefully. I raised a singular eyebrow. "I know more about the city than you two dunderheads put together!"  
  
"See here!" Watson had finally had his patience snapped, and he turned Ronald around to face him. "Call me anything you like, you dirty scoundrel, but I'll hear nothing out of those filthy lips to degrade Holmes, do you hear me?" I placed a hand on Watson's shoulder to pacify him.  
  
"You and I both know that he is right, Watson. Even if we had lived on Baker Street all our lives, we would never know more about the back ways and hidden passages as our young friend does." Watson gave me a pleading look, but I stared him down resolutely. "At the moment, we must be off to Hyde Park, where our Ms. Hannah Brooke will have rounded up all of her friends that belong to the troupe." I gazed down my nose at the child who had his arms crossed defiantly. "And you, my small friend, will not interfere." 

"Holmes," he started, but I held up a finger.  
  
"While in my employ, you will call me Mr. Holmes."

"_Mr_. Holmes," he said thickly, "I know more'n what you give me credit for. I swear I won't 'interfere' with anythin' you two decide to do. Just let me tag along."

'Jack,' Sherlock muttered near my ear, 'through experience, I have come to learn that taking along a companion can be utterly cumbersome or of the greatest magnitude. I have a feeling that including the child may belong to the latter classification.' I stared long at Ronald's great, wide brown eyes and his smudged round face. Shrugging off something that was vaguely familiar about the face, I rolled my eyes and patted the urchin on his grimy shoulder.  
  
"Promise me that you will stay out of my way, and that of Mr. Watson, young Ronald."

"S'long as you stop callin' me Ronald." He gave me an apprehensive sideways glance. "Only my mum ever called me that. Just Ron'll do." I looked up to see the look of loathing on dear Watson's face, and a smile pulled itself across mine.  
  
"Fine, Ron. You will accompany Mr. Watson and myself to Hyde Park, where I will interrogate the members of Hannah Brooke's traveling thespian troupe." The park was a fair ways off, but the walk was invigorating, if the breeze wasn't a bit too icy for its own good. Watson and I hardly exchanged a word on our way there, and I had a feeling that it was because I had chosen to let Ron accompany us. But the boy kept true to his promise: he made nary a sound save for the slapping of his bare feet on the ground behind us. Finally, I turned to Watson, who was focusing on his feet.  
  
"Have you made any assumptions on the case yet, my dear Watson?" He looked up sharply, then away again.  
  
"I think it's too soon to make assumptions, Holmes. We don't know nearly enough about any of the players to know about a motive or even if a crime was committed."

"On the contrary," I told him with a smirk, "Ms. Brooke has given us a multitude of information in her small speech. And of course there has been a crime committed, Watson. Kidnapping most foul." Watson looked up at me, mouth slightly agape.  
  
"Now, Holmes, don't you think that's going a bit far? Kidnapping? What made you draw to that conclusion?"

"I thought that it was painfully obvious. A man, so lovingly immersed in his work and his friends, suddenly disappears right before his chance to put his name into the world of theatre. It reeks of foul play, Watson. I am simply gathering all of these so-called thespians together to see which of them holds the key to my always elusive motive."

"Perhaps jealousy over Ms. Brooke?" Watson surmised, bringing his stubby pencil to his lips in thought, as he was prone to do. "Or the role of Hamlet?"

"One, or even both," I said, looking to where the park entrance was gaping to welcome us. "I intend to find Mr. McGuiness, be he alive and well or meeting his maker." On that ominous note, we entered the park.  
  
It was immediately apparent where the action had taken place the previous night. The area of the clearing was still littered with the garbage of at least one hundred or so audience members. From what I could see, they had either to stand or sit on the grass, for there were no apparent benches on which to sit. Then, standing all in a straight line, were the players. They ranged from young to old, tall to short, thin to wide. All assortments stood before me, all in an arrangement of clothing. The first ones to catch my eye were a group of four little brunettes, all standing closely together and silently weeping. If my assumptions were correct, then those four had the same dark brown hair of Mr. McGuiness.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" Ms. Brooke was amongst us, and grabbed my hand in a frighteningly strong grip. I smiled through my teeth, wondering why everyone had to grab my hand so forcefully every time we met. "I found everyone except dear old Bertha Shaw and her son Robbie. I'm so sorry Mr. Holmes-"

"Quite all right, Ms. Brooke," I said, patting her hand. "Already you have exceeded my expectations. Would you be so kind as to walk with me and introduce all of your friends to Mr. Watson and myself?" Ms. Brooke nodded, her lips clenched tightly. Her great blue eyes moved across my face, then to the form of Watson, then down to the minute body of Ron. He smiled, removed his tatty hat from his mess of black hair and did a slight bow.  
  
"And who is this fine, upstanding gentleman?" Ms. Brooke asked, giving her hand to the miniature urchin. Ron took the proffered hand and pecked his lips against it.  
  
"M' name's Ron, Ms. Brooke. I'm Mr. Holmes'... er... Assistant." I could see his eyes flick to mine for a nod or anything of the sort. I was unmoved.  
  
"Young Ron is accompanying me, and has given his word not to interfere with either myself, Mr. Watson, or any of your troupe." I gave Ron a look that told him of the seriousness of this statement he had given. "Now, Ms. Brooke," I said as I moved toward the line of people, "would you please introduce me to your troupe-mates." There was a long line of minor roles, and I tried to keep all of the names separate in my head. There were a few that were distinctive, including Marjorie Binns, a mother figure amongst the troupe, and Gerald Heyman, Mr. McGuiness' closest friend who had taken the case to Scotland Yard. But it was the four children with whom I was most eager to speak. Children are young and careless, their minds virgin to the corruption of the world, therefore a prime vessel of knowledge. Especially the youngest ones.  
  
"These four," Ms. Brooke said with the slightest catch in her throat, "are David's sisters. Alice is the youngest at six, then Anna at nine, Sara at 14 and finally the eldest, Joan, who is just 16. They were the closest to David, closer than I have ever been to him." I looked the four of them over, taking all of them in. Alice, who was dressed in a man's suit that was at least three sizes too large for her, was trembling slightly as she stared up at me. She clung to her eldest sister Joan for support. Joan's eyes were lidded and untrusting at first glance. Sara, whose dark brown hair was in a tight braid, had young Anna in her lap, staring as we approached. I glanced behind me. Watson's fingers were clenched tightly around his notebook, and his knuckles were a pale white.  
  
"I see," I said as my eyes washed over all four of them again. I knelt down next to Alice, the smallest. "No need to fear, little one. I promise that I will try my hardest to find your big brother." Alice's doe-colored eyes blinked rapidly, and I could see Joan's hands grip her sister more tightly.  
  
"She hasn't spoken since David went missing," Joan said with an edge in her voice. I looked up at her from my kneeling position. Her eyes were bent in anger. I rose, staring at her through level eyes.  
  
"Have I offended you somehow, Ms. McGuiness?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. Her eyebrows tilted down at an even more furious angle.  
  
"I have no reason to like you, Mr. Holmes."

"Not even the fact that I am going out of my way to find your brother?"

"Joan!" A hissing voice came to my right, and I could see Sara glaring at her older sister. "You don't have to alienate _everyone_ that tries to help us!" Joan whirled on her sister, eyes ablaze.  
  
"How much of a chance do you think this _boy_ has of finding him? We're his sisters! We should be out looking for him, not sitting on our asses like a pack of sick dogs!" Alice started to sniffle, and tears started pouring down her cheeks.  
  
"Stop yelling!" Sara growled in a low voice. "You're scaring Alice and Anna."

"They should be scared!" Joan shrilled. "David is gone, Sara! If we don't find him, we won't have anyone left in the world to look after us!"

"Holmes," Watson whispered at my side, but I quieted him with a raised finger, interested in the girls' harsh words.  
  
"Joany," Anna said in a quiet voice.  
  
"The papers have said that Mr. Holmes has done wonderful things before," Sara offered.  
  
"I don't trust him as far as I could hit him with a cricket bat. He's got as much chance of finding David as Hannah does." Joan's eyes, and her whole body, turned to me again. "What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?" I smiled, unaffected by her biting words.  
  
"Only that David was abducted by someone that he is very close to, and the kidnapper used a four-wheeled vehicle to relocate his prisoner. Also, that the kidnapper used a thick length of long, tightly coiled rope to bind Mr. McGuiness' arms and legs. Upon further inspection, I am sure that I could identify the type of vehicle used to abduct your Hamlet." Joan stood before me, her eyes still aflame with hate and passion, but at a loss for words or movement. In the pause, I turned to Watson, whose face was as flushed as if every drop of blood in his body had relocated to his cheeks.  
  
"Did you catch all that, Watson? It is vastly important, and I would hate to forget it." I was about to walk from the four sisters, when Sara grabbed a hold of my greatcoat's sleeves and bunched it into her fist.  
  
"Mr. Holmes," her voice came, thin, "could I please speak to you alone?" I blinked a few times, then smiled.  
  
"Of course, Ms. McGuiness, I could hardly refuse you, with the death grip you have on my arm." At once, the grip was released, her face a mix of emotions.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes, it's just... everything that's been happening..." I took the hand that had been gripping me forcefully and squeezed it softly.  
  
"Tell me everything you know, young McGuiness, and I shall try my hardest to help you." I released her hand and patted her affably on the shoulder. Her face twitched into a sad smile. I turned to Ron, who seemed to have been drinking in the whole conversation.  
  
"Ron," I caught his attention, "would you be so kind as to entertain Ms. Anna McGuiness while I speak with her chaperone?" Anna slid from Sara's side and sidled over to where Ron waited to intercept her. "Watson," I hissed, grabbing his attention, for he had been dully staring without purpose at us.  
  
The closest tree proved to be enough shelter for Ms. Sara McGuiness to spill her story to us. I held my hand to my chin in thought as I observed her and her words. She was dressed in period clothes, most likely to match those on stage.  
  
"Ms. McGuiness," I started, but she stopped me.  
  
"Please, call me Sara. There are far too many Ms. McGuiness' here to drive one mad." I smiled and gave a sidelong glance at Watson, whose face had not overcome the onslaught of blush.  
  
"Sara," I said with a grin, "is it true that you have never acted since Mr. McGuiness joined the troupe?" She stared and blinked for almost a minute before answering.  
  
"Y-yes, that's true. I hand out the pamphlets with the given circumstances." It was my turn to question her words.  
  
"Excuse me, what?"

"Given circumstances," she said, as if she'd had to explain it many times before. "The information in the play set down for you by the playwright. It is always helpful, especially in Shakespearian plays." I logged this away in my memory, and allowed the girl to continue.  
  
"Ms.- ... Sara, would you kindly explain why you pulled me aside?"

"I know that my sister Joan is unwilling to help you, but that doesn't mean that I won't go through whatever it takes to get David back. Joan would do the same, but she hasn't really trusted men since..."

"Since?" I prompted.  
  
"I don't really like to mention it, but late one night, after a play, Jane was assaulted by a stranger, and he would have done most terrible things to her if David hadn't been there to save her." She paused, and I could see tears in her eyes. "I really don't think that we could live without him." Taking a deep breath, she continued. "Last night, I was dressed as you see me, handing the given circumstances to the audience members as they arrived. David approached me then, and asked me to keep a sharp eye for anyone who looked disreputable." I looked up sharply, but did not interrupt.  
  
'He expected the attack,' Holmes muttered lowly in the back of my mind.

"Then he disappeared, probably to put on his makeup. When I went to find him, I could see him talking with a man that I had never seen before. They were both standing against a great black car."

"Could you identify the car if it were shown to you?" I asked.  
  
"Possibly," she said, glancing about her nervously. "David soon saw me, and approached, telling me not to worry about the stranger, that he was an old friend, and- Mr. Holmes, are you feeling quite all right?"

As soon as she had said it, I could feel my head beginning to swim, and the world was full of soft, swirling lights, and pain in my abdomen. I could hear Watson's voice, and I felt his hands grab me before I could fall backwards. Off in the distance, I could hear Watson's voice calling out:  
  
"Hurry! Get Mr. Holmes something- anything!- He hasn't eaten since-"  
  
And I was gone into darkness.


	4. Intermission With the Detective

AN: Joy and rapture! Another chapter! This is probably more boring thatn my other two stories... Forgive me if it's uninteresting. ;-;  
  
**Chapter Four: Intermission With the Detective  
**  
"It seems that you have picked up a few of my more aggravating habits." I found myself looking into the sharp gray eyes of Sherlock Holmes. I groaned, closing my eyes against the pain and put a hand to my forehead.  
  
"What are you talking about, Holmes?" I asked, opening one eye to peer at him. We were both standing, but he had bent down to my eye level to investigate. Presently, he stood to his full height and lit the bowl of his pipe with a puff of smoke.  
  
"You and I seem to share the lack of interest for eating when a case is present," he said simply, shaking the match out and tossing it into the darkness of oblivion. "Would you care to take a walk with me?" I opened my second eye then and looked about me. Nothing but the blackness of my subconscious awaited us.  
  
"Walk to _where_, Holmes?" I asked incredulously, looking back to him. He shook his head, taking the pipe from his mouth and blowing a soft, gray smoke ring.  
  
"Have you no imagination, Jack? Can you think of this place as nothing more than a well of inky blackness? Think, boy, _think_." I watched Sherlock Holmes turn away from me, as if expecting me to solve this problem while his back was turned. I bit my lower lip, then screwed my eyes shut. As I opened them again, the great detective and I were surrounded not by an endless void, but the soft sunlight of summer in a verdant park unlike any I have ever visited. Holmes turned back to me, a smile on his normally sharp features. I returned it.  
  
"Is this more to your liking?" I asked with an air of smugness. He took a look around him, puffing silently on his pipe, then nodded, replacing his momentary smirk with a look of critical inspection.  
  
"Yes, yes, this is much more agreeable." Glancing back at me, he took the pipe from his mouth once more. "See what the mind is capable of, Jack, my boy?"  
  
We walked down the path, which, if it is of any consequence, was comprised of pebbles, for quite some time in silence. He smoked his pipe unmolested by speech, and I watched the sunlight filter through the wide green leaves above. Just walking, I was somehow content, more than I had been for a long time in my memory. Strangely enough, it was one of the most calming moments I had ever remembered witnessing, and I am not even sure that it really ever happened. I grew accustomed to the sounds of our shoes crunching the tiny stones underneath, and even the intermittent bird call from far off in the distance. At last, Holmes halted and knocked the ash from his pipe by knocking it against his shoe. The sound echoed loudly against the tree trunks.  
  
"Who are your suspects, dear boy?" Holmes asked as he began to twirl his pipe between his fingers. The gray eyes looked down at me with one eyebrow raised. We again began to walk on the path.  
  
"My main focus today was to meet with the sisters McGuiness, to hear their unfettered view of the events. The mind of a child is yet uncorrupted."  
  
"As is normal, Jack. Not all hold to the norm, you must remember." He held his pipe between his teeth in thought, though the tobacco was long gone. "In fact, it would be wiser to expect nothing but what strayed from the beaten path of normalcy. But you have not answered my question, young Holmes."

"Anyone on that green could have abducted the man, Holmes!" I felt the blood rising to my cheeks. To be embarrassed in such a way in front of Sherlock Holmes was close to unbearable. But he was quiet, patient.  
  
"You said yourself to Ms. Joan McGuiness that someone close to Mr. McGuiness abducted him. So think. How many times must I remind you to think?"

I stared at the ground, trying to hide my rapidly flushing face from the great detective. Those last words had stung me, even if he had not meant them to. The problem was that he did have to remind me to think, to deduce. And while I said nothing for minutes on end, we simply kept walking in silence. His distance made it seem as if he didn't care about the case one iota, but I knew differently. After a period of deliberation, I spoke slowly, carefully.  
  
"Alice and Anna are ruled out without pause. They are both far too young to have contrived anything of this sort. Ms. Brooke can also be done away with, for she was on 'stage' when Mr. McGuiness disappeared. That leaves the possibility of the remaining Ms. McGuiness', Mr. Gerald Heyman, any of his Hamlet stage-mates, or of an outside force."

"Search the facts, slowly eliminating those who do not fit the profile," Holmes suggested, digging into a pouch at his side for more pipe tobacco. His face was pinched, as if in impatience. "Come now, Jack, you should be able to deduce more than this without my help, shouldn't you?"

"You expect too much of me," I said in a soft voice, but he still heard what I said. He lit his pipe for the second time, and silently puffed it for a moment to two, then tossed the match onto the ground and ground it into the pebbles at our feet.  
  
"I expect from you what I expect from myself, no more or less, though, admittedly, you have pushed my expectations higher with each exploit. You set your own bar, Jack, not I." Only another second passed before he dropped the bomb. "You brought this upon yourself." I turned on him, enraged.  
  
"I would never have even _thought_ about being a detective if you hadn't forced your ideas on me!" I clenched my fists in rage.  
  
"Dear boy, I never thrust the thought into your mind." Holmes was calm, but his tone had suddenly become more biting. I frowned at his immovability.  
  
"Just because I am Holmes reincarnate, I am expected to be not only as great as he was, but greater in every way," I growled, looking everywhere but at him.  
  
The world around us wavered for a moment, then flickered back into view. We were silent. At great length, he took the pipe from his mouth and spoke a slow, steady voice of a man trying to remain calm, and yet somehow hurt from deep inside.  
  
"You may bow out at any time you wish, Jack." Holmes' voice was hollow, devoid of emotion. "No one has bound you to this case but yourself." The world blinked off and on, and the form of Sherlock Holmes winked in and out of existence. "But I have learned that I never took cases for my own good, but for the good of those who needed my expert help. Remember that, Jack."

I opened my eyes to see three sets of eyes that were far too close to be comfortable. One set was a familiar, comforting brown while the others were a shocking blue and rich, dark brown. I gasped as I sat up, scattering the eyes to their respective persons.  
  
"Good God, Holmes," came Watson's exasperated voice to my left. "You really _must_ desist from passing out like this. It really does frighten me."

"Apparently, I cannot help it, Watson," I said, rubbing my temples hard and remembering the conversation I had held with Holmes. "It is in my nature to routinely forget meals." I looked around me to identify the owners to the other two sets of eyes, and I could see Ms. Sara McGuiness with her small blue eyes and Ron, who held the darker of the brown eyes, sitting precariously close. I quickly shoved my body from the ground, remembering well the talk that Holmes and I had shared. I exchanged no dialogue with Watson or Sara McGuiness as I moved past them, at some protest from young Ronald.  
  
"Hoy, Mr. Holmes!" he shouted, running after me. "You gotta eat something or else you'll fall right over again!" Just as the words left him, a numbing pain splashed spasmodicly through my body, and I fell to one knee with a dull thud. Ron appeared at my side, a wonderfully tantalizing sandwich in his hands. I stared at the food with loving delicacy. But I shoved the thought from my skull.  
  
"Ron," I asked, tearing my eyes, not without difficulty, from the beloved food item, "what did you learn from Ms. Anna McGuiness?" Ron, luckily, had done what I had asked without words.  
  
"Nothin', Mr. Holmes." He shoved the sandwich in my face. "That is, if you don't eat, I didn't learn nothin'." I took my eyes to his, and was surprised to see the determination there. With a look of faux distaste, I snatched the succulent sustenance from his grubby fingers and began to tear ravenously into its flesh-like bread.  
  
"You are a tyrant, young Ron," I muttered between bites, feeling the wonderfully reviving food in my gullet. "Now," I said, with the last bites yet to be taken," tell me of your exploits."

"Ms. Anna told me about seein' a big black car earlier in the day, and that Mr. McGuiness and a group of his friends went somewhere for a few hours, she didn't know where. In," his eyes flashed, "the black car." With the last crumbs of the much-needed sandwich still in my mouth, I smiled at the urchin boy.  
  
"Good boy, Ron," I murmured, swallowing the last of the food. I stood, and brushed the grass from my knees. "Now to identify the vehicle that abducted our absent Hamlet." I turned to where it seemed that Watson and Sara McGuiness were deep in conversation. I frowned. Watson had said that he had been concerned, but that I fell to my knees and he did not so much as glance up made my lips turn down slightly.  
  
After only a moment, I was on my knees again, but this time of my own infliction. I leaned my face close to the ground. It may have seemed very odd to an outsider: a young man, nearly lying on his stomach, staring at something that wasn't there. But there was something there, and I was staring right at it.  
  
"Close tread," I observed aloud, peering with one eye shut, my head parallel to the ground. This could have belonged to any black car in London, but I was sure that it was the same car that had stolen away Mr. McGuiness. I began inching my way along the tire tracks, searching for anything that might be singular about them, anything that would allow for any distinction at all. I found it, but not with my eyes.  
  
The cold, congealed liquid squelched between my fingers, and I grimaced. I rocked backwards onto my knees, staring as the dark viscous blood rolled in large drops down my palm and wrist.  
  
"Oh merciful Lord," came the voice of Hannah Brooke from behind me. I turned, and her fingers were trembling violently as they hovered over her paled lips. I acted quickly.  
  
"Watson!" I barked, standing in an instant. He snapped to attention from his position beside Sara McGuiness and was suddenly beside Ms. Brooke, holding her waist to keep her steady. "We do not want another person to fall unconscious during this investigation," I said to him, and then to the mass that had gathered around us: "Someone find Ms. Brooke a glass of strong brandy!" There was no shortage of strong alcohol amongst the traveling actors, and soon, Ms. Brooke was sitting on a park bench with a blanket draped over her shoulders. Situated in her quivering fingers was a glass of brandy that she brought to her lips and sipped on daintily. Watson sat on the bench beside her, ready to supply aid or more brandy should she need either.  
  
"I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said in a shaky voice. Her hands were still quaking. "I could have seen the same scene in a cinema and had no troubles, but to see the blood... _David's_ blood."

"Ms. Brooke," broke in Watson's voice, "I am not sure that we can be certain-" I stilled his voice with a hand applied to his shoulder.  
  
"Watson," I murmured close to his ear, "it is not wise to instill false hope to such a woman."

"The blood could belong to one of the kidnappers," he told me resolutely. "McGuiness could have injured some of them in a struggle."

"_Think_, Watson," I said, using the same words that Holmes had used on me earlier. I felt myself grow angry at their resurfacing. "There is blood on the rope fragments near the front of-" I looked at where the troupe had formerly been lined up, and it seemed as if they had dispersed while I had been unconscious. "Well, what used to be the front of the line. I will promise to never eat again if that is not the victim's blood." Watson's face paled.  
  
"You shouldn't joke like that, Holmes. Every time you-" He bit his lower lip, then continued. "It scares me more than I have ever been scared before. You are my only friend in the world, Holmes, and if you-"

"Watson," I said calmingly, resting my hands on his shoulders. "Do not worry yourself over such matters." I paused, looking at the boy that had walked into my life not so long ago, not sure of what to say next. It was true. I was the only friend, or even family, that he had left. And all I had was him. I opened my mouth to tell him this, closed it, and patted my friend firmly on the shoulder. Straightening myself, I walked to where I had seen the frayed ends of ropes severed. Leaning closer, sitting again on my worn knees, and taking care not to touch them, I reasoned that they were cut with a pair of heavy scissors.  
  
'Larger,' muttered Holmes, the first time that he had spoken out since I had passed out. I frowned at his interjection.  
  
"Shears, then?" I asked to anyone. But no one responded. Even Holmes, who was always eager to insert his opinion, was silent. I waited for almost a minute for him to reprimand or reward me, but nothing came. Nothing, that is, until a feminine hand with long white fingers came down in front of my eyes, holding a large, handheld magnifying glass. I wrapped my fingers around the grip and looked at the person offering it to me.  
  
"I suppose that if you're going to help David, you'll need some more help than an amateur journalist and an urchin." Joan's voice was softer, many decibels lower than it had been before. I stared in awe at the change in her face, standing to my full height.  
  
"Thank you," I told her, not sure if I could allow her a smile. After she had let go of the grip, and I had pocketed it, I looked at her face. "Are you offering her services to me?" She retreated her eyes to the bloodied rope.  
  
"You have put me in my place, Mr. Holmes. There is no place for me among clues and detecting. There is so much that I will never learn because I am not willing to look for it." Her sudden change in demeanor caught me off guard, and the following smile even more so. "But perhaps there is someone among us who can help you."

"Ms. Sara," I muttered quietly. Joan's face did a double take, then she calmed herself.  
  
"I almost forgot whom I was talking to," she said with a sigh. She fiddled with the ring on her pinkie finger, returning to the subject. "Sara loved David, probably more than I did, but I've never seen her act the way she has today." Suddenly, her old, hardened face retuned, without warning. "I don't know who took David, Mr. Holmes, but I wouldn't rule out a suspect just because they cannot drive."  
  
And she walked away, leaving me to ponder her cryptic words.


	5. Rising Action

**Chapter Five: Rising Action**  
  
I took the magnifying glass from my pocket, still standing where Ms. McGuiness had left me, and examined it. It was finely crafted, if not old, and the grip had a small crack running up the side. The poor tool had seen action, but not recently. A fine layer of dust had gathered on the lens. I decided that its call for action had finally come, and I began wiping the lens on the cuff of my sleeve. Ms. McGuiness was right. It would be foolish for me to attempt to take on the kidnapper-  
  
'Or kidnappers,' Holmes reminded me quietly.  
  
-or kidnappers by myself. But there was something nagging at the back of my mind. I couldn't quite place the feeling, but I let it rule me. I stood to my full height, turned my attention to the tire tracks, and returned to the spot where my hand had come into contact with the puddle of blood. I followed the tracks toward the entrance that Watson and I had entered through. A large spot of blood in the grass. I grimaced.  
  
A trail.  
  
I looked back at the park, to my friends and compatriots.  
  
I turned my back to them and exited the park.  
  
The blood, having been deposited in a rather large puddle, gave a large, if not dry, spot on the road just outside the gate. I brought out my magnifying glass. The tread was the same, and so it was the same vehicle that young Ms. Anna and Ms. Sara had seen earlier. I stepped out, making sure that my followed parallel to the tire tracks. And the occasional, ever shrinking, marks of blood from the tire. Soon I would reach an intersection, and I might even lose my trail. A loud, shrieking car horn sounded from directly behind me, and a large white automobile screeched to a halt mere inches from my person. I fell backwards to the pavement in shock, my heard thudding away in my chest. I saw a head emerge from the drivers-side window, and a rather frizzy head at that.  
  
"What in the bloody Hell d'you think you're doin' in the middle of the road?!" I stared, pulse racing, at the angry, red-faced driver. I had completely forgotten about moving vehicles.  
  
"S-sorry," I muttered quickly, getting out of the way of the car as quickly as possible. The man glared at me as he brought his head back inside of his car.  
  
"Y' think you're some kind of bloody detective?!" And with that, he roared off, right over the tracks that I had been following. As I watched the car careen away, I sighed.  
  
"I'm trying to be," I answered his question, although his ears were probably halfway across London, the way he was driving. Then came the feeling of Holmes, as if he were right next to me. It was if I could even smell the smoke from his pipe.  
  
'Jack,' his voice came. I wasn't sure whether to be glad of his companionship or to shun him for his previous attitude toward me. 'Did you see that?' It took only a moment for me to fall back to the side of the old detective, and I was glad to be there.  
  
"Yes," I muttered under my breath, so as to attract as little attention as possible. "That white car has not always been so white."

'And its previous color...?' He asked, prompting me.  
  
"Black, no doubt of it. The areas around the latches still retained a distinct black colour."

'And behold our trail.'

I looked on the pavement, and beheld two spots of blood where there had previously been only one. I waited for two more cars to pass, and I was back on the road, knelt next to the blood spots with my magnifying glass drawn.  
  
"Their shapes are not identical." I stated aloud. I looked to the mark I had been studying before. "The first blood deposit is noticeably smaller than the newer one." I pressed my fingertips against the new marking. "And this blood is nearly fresh." I brought my bloodied fingertips to my face and examined the sticky liquid. After removing myself from the street as a group of slow-moving cars moved past, I returned and examined the two treads, and found them to be exactly alike. A smile hovered on my face.  
  
'And what else do you deduce?' Holmes asked. I felt oddly relieved that Holmes was not guiding me, simply aiding, free to make my own assumptions. Perhaps it was because of our chat earlier that I was enjoying my newly found freedom.  
  
"That the driver is returning to the point of origin, and most likely where Mr. McGuiness is being held." I stood again, narrowly dodging a speeding motor vehicle. "Do you think that we could catch up with it?" I asked.  
  
'Perhaps. It was moving rather fast...'

I didn't let him finish. I was running as fast as I could push my body. I kept my feet out of traffic, but my eyes stayed with the two sets of tire tracks. At intervals, I could see the rapidly fading blood stains. I had no idea how many people I forced out of my way, or how many dodged as if a vehicle had come running up to meet them. I searched for the white car, looking up only intermittently from the tire tracks. I did not know where they were leading me other than to a kidnapper or an accomplice. I focused entirely on finding that car.  
  
And I was rewarded.

Sirens echoed about me. I looked up sharply. The tracks had ended. There, smashed into a light pole, was the black car turned white. A crowd of people more curious than concerned had gathered, and I craned my neck to look over them. Sirens still whined in the distance. Perhaps they were headed this way. I began to inch my way through the thick cloud of people.  
  
Then, from the crumpled wreckage of the white car climbed the red-faced man. A stream of blood was trickling from his brow line. A bad injury had been sustained in his lower left leg. I shoved one of the younger watchers aside and entered the inner circle of the audience.  
  
"Stop there!" I shouted at the man. He looked up sharply, and his face pinched upon recognizing me. Despite his injuries, he bolted. I planted my feet and charged off after him.  
  
He ran remarkably far and fast for a man with such injuries, but I matched his pace, following only a few paces behind. If only I could manage a burst of speed, I would have him! Our path was unknown to me again, my concentration on the man running in front of me.  
  
"Hold! Cease!" I called futilely after him. Still he ran. I could see the limp in his left lower leg becoming steadily more pronounced. He was slowing. I readied myself to spring.  
  
"There he is!" A voice shouted from somewhere near my ear. My foot suddenly found the thin wire that had been placed in my way, and I fell over myself. I mentally cursed myself, and Holmes himself put in a few choice words. Before I could stop my own body from tumbling, two sets of rough hands grabbed me and righted me. I was being held to my feet, and I watched as the frizzy-headed man approached with a blunt instrument in his hand.  
  
"How is it that I always end up in the clutches of madmen?" I asked no one in particular. The red-faced man grimaced.  
  
"Shut-up, kid." He raised the object in his hand and proceeded to crack it on the side of my head.  
  
------------  
  
I felt large hands seize me again, and I was pulled to my feet. I felt the pain from the growing welt on the side of my skull and opened my eyes to peer into the face of Sherlock Holmes. His eyebrows were furrowed in discontent. All around us, it was night. The trees were the same as they had been, except that they now were bare of leaves and their naked branches danced in the chill breeze.  
  
"Jack, you are a fool," he said summarily, and turned to light his pipe away from the wind's influence. Eventually the bowl lit, and he puffed the smoke to life. I held my arms akimbo.  
  
"Yes, I know that I walked directly into the jaws of danger and was snatched up by-"

"No, Jack, you are a fool because you ran in blindly, without a plan, without knowing whom you are up against."

"Heyman," I said simply, crossing my arms across my chest. Holmes turned to me. "The man that nearly ran me over was Gerald Heyman. The line dispersed while I was speaking to you earlier today, and Mr. Heyman left as fast as he possibly could, eradicating all evidence against him that I might find. He slopped paint onto his black car and cut his long locks short. To all but the observant, Gerald Heyman disappeared along with David McGuiness."

"As he would have wanted it to seem," Holmes said, speaking my thoughts. He shook his head and tapped his teeth with the stem of his pipe. "Well, my boy, you know who it is that has you under his custody, but as to what you are going to do about it...?"

"I am at a loss." The chill wind picked up, and I glared furiously. No sooner had I thought it, the scene around me turned to a warm open field, experiencing the last days of summer. The wheat of the field tossed in the fragrant breeze. I sighed. At least I could feel comfort inside of myself. Holmes was leaning against a decaying fence post nearby.  
  
"We have seen three men. One of which is Gerald Heyman, and at least two other well-sized men. How many more await us upon your waking, we have yet to find out." As Holmes spoke in his droning voice, I felt the knot on the side of my head. It had grown to the size of a small egg by this time and was causing me a considerable amount of pain. Holmes glanced irritably at me.  
  
"I am sorry, Holmes, but it is difficult to concentrate with a drill boring into my skull."

"Focus. In times like these, our petty aches must be forgotten and the problem at hand must be assessed." He puffed on his pipe, then looked to the late summer sky. "Sometimes I do miss the world I left behind. The better part of it I could live without, but what I would give for an afternoon in Sussex among the fields."

As I sat in the billowing waves of wheat, I was bowled over by the man's sudden change. I had never head Holmes speak in such a way, and I thought that I should never live to hear it again. The thought process eventually brought about a question that had been hovering in the back of my mind since I had discovered that I was Sherlock Holmes reincarnate.  
  
"Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Will you always be there, to guide me when I go wrong?"

There was a deep silence, and the wind died in the air. The only sound was of Holmes knocking the ashes from his pipe on the leaning fencepost.  
  
"I suppose that there will come a time when you will no longer need my advice and guidance. You are, perhaps to your chagrin, becoming more and more like me as each day passes. Perhaps one day I will cease to exist in your subconscious and move on."

I wasn't pleased.  
  
"Holmes, I don't want you to-"

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

I had been rudely awakened from my talk with Holmes to face a man's black boot with rounded toes. I groaned, feeling the pain in my skull anew. I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering Holmes's words. Voices surrounded me, and the closest one was muttering my name. I opened my eyes again and turned my head. I winced as I realized that my hands and ankles were bound with very abrasive rope. As I looked to the voice, it dawned on me as to whose brown eyes I was staring into. I coughed, letting my surprise exit me in a gasp.  
  
"Mr. McGuiness!"  
  
----  
  
AN: SUSPENCE!! Sorry, I have to keep everyone on the edge of their seats. And Jack figured it out all by himself this time! Huzzah! I hope this story is getting more exciting!


	6. Climax

**Chapter Six: Climax**  
  
"Are you Jack Holmes?" asked David McGuiness. From my position, curled into a ball on the floor with my wrists and ankles bound, I searched Mr. McGuiness for injuries before I responded. There was a dreadful jagged cut above his right brow, and it was still dripping with blood. Rips and tears appeared as I scanned my eyes over his torso. This man was handled roughly. Finally, I met his eyes again. His face was dreadfully pale.  
  
"I have a reason to know your name, Mr. McGuiness, but how on earth came you to possess mine?" I asked, trying to pull myself into a sitting position. My head swam, and I thought better of it. Mr. McGuiness shifted uncomfortably, his hands tied behind him and his legs tied in two different places. He had put up quite a struggle.  
  
"Gerald and his men have been talking about you non-stop since this morning," Mr. McGuiness informed me with a growl, his now vicious eyes darting to the shadowy form of his former best friend in the next room. He looked back to me. "Hannah went to Scotland Yard to look for him, which was where he was supposed to be in the first place, when he had actually returned here to make sure that I hadn't found a way out. They met halfway between the two points, I suppose. Anyway, Hannah told Gerald about going to see you, Mr. Holmes, and he's been pouring over the newspapers and getting paler and paler. Sorry it had to come to this, Mr. Holmes." I knew that he was referring to the rather large welt that was forming on the back of my head.  
  
"No, the fault lies with me..." I trailed off, then berated myself softly. "Why did I leave Watson behind? You're a damned fool, Jack Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes?" Mr. McGuiness's voice was lower now, as one of the paid thugs lumbered past. I nodded to indicate that I was listening. "... How is Hannah?"

"She is doing well, considering the circumstances," I murmured lowly. "Though she nearly lost herself at the sight of your blood." Mr. McGuiness moved his arm as is he was to wipe away the blood from his brow, but he sighed, remembering the abrasive rope at his wrists.  
  
"Why would Gerald do this? He hasn't sent for ransom, and he hasn't told me why, other than 'You know' and a quick laugh."

"Mr. Heyman is a man who does not think things over before he does them, Mr. McGuiness," I added in a louder voice as Gerald Heyman himself walked by. I could see his cold eyes look down at me, then a smirk. I continued. "He is also a man who has no thoughts other low, primal instincts. He sees a woman, and it must be his." Heyman's pupils contracted in fear, for only a moment. "But what to do," I mused sarcastically, "when a woman cannot be his? Why, get rid of the only thing standing in his way, of course. And, how fortunate that the only obstacle thinks himself to be your best friend, am I correct, Mr. Heyman?"

Stars flashed before my eyes as Heyman's boot connected with my stomach. I doubled up painfully, allowing for a groan to exit my lips.  
  
"You're too cocky for your own good, Mr. Holmes." With that, he walked away into the adjoining room. I nodded in consent, closing my eyes against the pain. Yes, I could be awfully cocky, couldn't I?  
  
'You could stand to tone it down a bit, Jack,' Holmes said with an unreadable tone in his voice.  
  
"Thank you," I muttered sarcastically. The room became quiet after Heyman's departure. I listened to the mutterings through the walls. They apparently were planning our executions. How pleasant of them.  
  
A small noise in the far corner of the room caught my attention. The window had shifted open. But no one was standing at the window. It had opened from the outside. I squinted in the half-darkness of the dim room to see who it was. A head covered in messy blonde hair shoved its way in through the window and dashed noiselessly across the room in bare feet. I did not realize who it was until the creature had pulled a dirty Swiss knife from a pocket and began to saw away at my bonds.  
  
"Judith!" I exclaimed in a soft whisper. Her jovial little face bobbed up to flash me a smile, and she continued to work at severing the thick rope with the dull knife. "How on earth did you know that I was here?"

"It's what we're s'posed to do, Mr. Holmes, sir." She was trying her damnedest to cut the ropes, but they did not want to yield. Mr. McGuiness, thankfully, said nothing of the urchin intruder, or how I came to know her name. Just as the first layer of rope began to feel the cut, a shout sounded from outside the door.  
  
"Oh, Watson," I chided softly, feeling my heart sink, "why now?" Just as these words left me, the front door to the room burst open to reveal Watson, Ron, and Sara McGuiness, each with a gun in their hand. I winced again when I saw that they were simply props from the traveling troupe, and Heyman would surely notice. Judith jumped at the sound and ducked behind me, cowering.  
  
"Mr. McGuiness! Holmes!" Watson's voice called. I inhaled. The two hired thugs were down, hiding beneath a long table, for they had not yet glimpsed the amateur intruders. Heyman, on the other hand, was up, his gun pointing at the door. A round was fired. A gasp and a thud. Another loud shot, but it echoed as it drilled through the wood of the doorframe. The thugs were up, and two screams as the two remaining children were captured. I exhaled. My heart, having jumped into my throat at the sound of Heyman's gun, dropped low into the very pit of my gut, seeing Watson and Ronald carried into the room by the thugs, and Heyman himself throwing the bleeding Sara McGuiness at the feet of her brother.  
  
"Another rescue attempt, McGuiness?" Heyman asked as he looked at the bullet wound in Ms. Sara's side. "You must've become very popular while you were gone." He shrugged, holstering his gun. "Then again, they say you're only truly famous after you're dead."

"Sara!" Mr. McGuiness's sorrow-laced voice echoed through the empty house. Ms. Sara stirred, but only to moan in agony and shift position. Watson, his face pale and distraught as he stared at her writhing form, tried to shake himself from the thug's grasp.  
  
"Let go! She needs a doctor!"

"I thought you were a journalist, scout," Heyman said as he absently thumbed through one of Watson's stories in the usurped notebook. He closed it with a snap. "Make up your mind, because I would want to know what to put in your obituary."

Watson stopped struggling, his face devoid of color. Judith shivered from her hiding spot, still unseen by Heyman and his lackeys.

"But," Heyman shrugged, retrieving his gun once again, "why start with the little sidekick when I can off the hero first?" The barrel of the gun flashed to point straight at my forehead. I was frozen, and my heart skipped a beat. "You've bothered everyone for far too long, Mr. Holmes." The hammer clicked back, and I squeezed my eyes shut. This was it. The famous detective loses his life before he's even famous.  
  
"Wait!" A voice cried out. It took me a moment to recognize it as Ron's. I opened my eyes. Everyone was staring at the boy, including Heyman. I was shocked to see that he had great, fat tears rolling down his face. "Don't kill him!" Ron cried, literally. Then came the shock that bowled me over completely. "Don't kill him! He's my brother!"

Everyone was still. It seemed to me as if time itself had stopped to listen. I stared, open-mouthed, as Ron brought his eyes up to look at me, the same brown eyes of my father. A jolt cracked through my chest, and I knew that it was true. I looked at the round-faced, dirt-encrusted boy and saw my brother. Ronald Joseph Holmes II.  
  
Time seemed to start once again, and Heyman's eyes were again on me, and his finger pulled on the trigger. Judith's tiny hands grabbed me from where I was half-sitting and pulled me to the ground where she had lain just as the trigger was pulled back, and the bullet whizzed harmlessly through the air. Heyman blinked for an instant, then aimed again for my head, his face red with anger.  
  
The window above us shattered into a rain of sharp glass, and the same could be said for the window that Judith had crawled in through. Heyman's second shot went wild as a sea of dirty urchin children streaming in from all sides diverted his attention. In the surprise of the attack, the two thugs were easily taken down and battered into unconsciousness with a varying array of blunt objects. Heyman was quicker.  
  
Five children launched themselves at Heyman, and with all the strength in their tiny bodies, bit, scratched and hammered away at his body. Heyman, infuriated to the point of insanity, threw the children off of him, and their bodies hit the floor with a series of dull thuds. Watson and Ron were free of their captors, and were helping the Irregulars to subdue them and bind their hands. With a snap, I felt that Judith had finally freed my hands, and without a word, I worked furiously to undo the bindings on my legs.  
  
My hand shot out for the gun that Heyman had dropped in his furious flight, and I took off after him, my long legs aching from my obvious beating while unconscious, but I pushed myself. I had almost failed to notice Ron at my side. Heyman had fled to the kitchen, where he was attempting to fit his overly large self through the tiny window. I held the gun up to aim at him, just as he had done to me.  
  
"Halt, Heyman, or I shall be forced to kill you!" My own voice surprised me, as it came in more of a growl than a shout. Heyman paused, and it seemed as if he was caught in the window. He looked up, and I could see fear in his eyes. I shook my head as I stared at his sad form, at the sad human being he had become. "For a woman, Heyman? You were willing to kill innocent children for a woman?" Heyman's eyes, terribly clear and lucid, began to fog over, and a cruel smile came to his lips.  
  
"For a woman as beautiful as Hannah, I would kill_ myself_."

And he did.  
  
I ran to the window, all too late. Looking down from the shattered glass and the torn window frame, I looked down into the dark alley below, and exhaled in defeat. Heyman's bloody, twisted body lay three stories below, his head caved in upon the side of a discarded writing desk.  
  
I pulled my head back inside, utterly exhausted, physically and mentally. I discarded the gun in the sink, disgusted by its presence. I sat myself bodily into one of the old, creaky chairs and stared blankly in front of me. It was a minute or two before I realized that I was seized between a pair of arms, and a sobbing head was lying on my chest.  
  
"Ron," I murmured throatily, and he looked up with uncharacteristic tears in his eyes. Before I could control myself, I grabbed him in my own arms and embraced him back, tears springing to my eyes. "My brother."

There we sat, for more than five minutes, embracing each other as if we would never see the other again, and weeping. It took Watson's shouts from the other room to stir us, wiping our eyes and getting unsteadily to our feet. I mussed his dark hair, so much like mine.

Ronald Holmes, my brother.  
  
----  
  
AN: There's the twist! AHH! Were you surprised? I hope I didn't give it away too early, though I gave you plenty o' hints. We've still got a chapter or 2 to do, so don't leave your seats yet, ladies and germs. Oh, and tell me what you think of my story... please?


	7. Denouement

**Chapter Seven: Denouement  
**  
Being the only Irregular who possessed the knowledge of how to work a telephone, Ron ran off into the master bedroom to search for one. The police had to be notified, of course. I quickly walked the few remaining steps to the room (which, I discovered, was the living room) in which I had been confined, to see to Watson's needs. I drank in the strange scene before my eyes.  
  
A dozen, even more, street urchins crowded the room, jabbering quietly amongst themselves. Many were nursing various bruises and cuts, the worst of them bleeding silently in pain. A few of them were sitting upon the thugs that they had so quickly disposed of, while others licked their wounds and chatted amiably as if nothing had happened. They did not even notice my entrance. David McGuiness was pacing the perimeter of the room, stony-faced and silent. I became instantly aware of what was causing his silence.  
  
Sara McGuiness lay trembling on the ground, a great white sheet tied tightly around her middle, where the bullet had pierced her. Her face was pinched tightly in pain, eyes shut against the throbbing wound in her side. Watson knelt beside her, his hand pressed into hers, their fingers woven tightly together. His face was etched with the same pain that filled Ms. Sara's features. I watched the both of them for a long minute, watched as Sara's breath hissed through her teeth, watched Watson's eyebrows arch in worry and his fingers knead her reassuringly.  
  
"The bullet passed right through her, Holmes," Watson said at last, not taking his eyes from Sara's face. "It's a clean wound, and it didn't hit any organs, but so many blood vessels were hit..." A darkness passed over his face as he released a shaking breath. "Heyman was right, Holmes. I can't be both. I can't..." I gripped Watson's shoulder hard to bring him back.  
  
"Watson," I said clearly, "men from Scotland Yard are on their way. They will take Ms. Sara somewhere where she will receive ample medical attention. It is not for you to take upon yourself."

"My father was a surgeon!" Watson's eyes were suddenly filled with tears. "His father before him was a surgeon! Holmes, I should be able to help her with more than a sheet and a hand to hold!" He looked away from Sara at last, and his watery eyes met mine. I held his gaze.  
  
"She needs that hand to hold on to, Watson."

He stared for only a moment, then his eyes overflowed. His grip on Sara's trembling fingers tightened, and he nodded, taking his eyes back to Sara McGuiness's pale and bloodless face. And there they stayed until we were awoken by a furious knocking on the door. I picked my way through the street children, stepping over and around them, until I was able to swing the door wide open.

I found myself facing a pug-faced young inspector whose dark brown hair had already begun to recede. He was short, at least a head shorter than I was, if not more. Even Watson, whose height was nothing to brag about, outstood this man by inches. Despite this, he had an air of authority about him, and he held himself erect as if at attention. The three other officers behind him seemed far less attentive, their eyes drooping and feet dragging solemnly. It had been, perhaps, a long night for them. I gave a wan smile.  
  
"Inspector?" I asked, although I already knew. He nodded tersely.  
  
"Yeah, we received a call from this 'ouse about a kidnappin' an' a freelance detective," he said as he pushed past me. His posture may have been official, but he had a thick cockney accent that difficult to decipher. The three lesser officers followed the inspector into the foyer.  
  
"You will find the kidnapper outside the kitchen window. I am the freelance detective you seek." I tried to give off with my voice the same authority that the inspector showed in his dress and posture. It must not have been very effective. He turned slowly and looked me up and down once with a smug look on his face.  
  
"Yeah, an' I'm the bloody Queen." He laughed as he cast an eye about, searching for the adult in charge. The pressure from the entire case suddenly plummeted down upon me, and I felt rage bubbling from inside my chest.  
  
"I am in charge of this operation, sir!" I said with a bark. The officers stopped and turned, a surprised look on each face, to me. "You will speak to me as a fellow adult as, legally, I am your peer!" I stopped for a moment, taking in the growing anger on the inspector's face. "I am Jack Holmes, a privately employed detective. I am in charge of this case, and all questions will be aimed toward me." I continued with my story before I could be interrupted. "David McGuiness was kidnapped yesterday at approximately nine o'clock by Mr. Gerald Heyman, who, as I mentioned before, is awaiting you just outside the kitchen window. You will not need your gun," I warned the inspector, as he started for the kitchen, "nor will you need handcuffs."

With a grunt of dissatisfaction, the inspector dashed into the kitchen. I spoke to the nearest officer.  
  
"Officer..."

"Dobson, sir. Roger Dobson."

"Officer Dobson, would you please see that Ms. Sara McGuiness finds her way to the nearest hospital as soon as possible?" Officer Dobson's eyes grew wide, and he dashed to the indicated room, only to emerge a moment later with Ms. Sara in his arms. Watson followed closely, but a second officer detained Mr. McGuiness.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll need to be taken in for questioning concerning the kidnapper and his men." I looked to the officer's identification tag and found his name to be M. Johnston.  
  
"Officer Johnston, perhaps the questioning can be done at the hospital? Surely it does not take the entire police force to question one man?" I glanced at Watson, whose eyes were clear of tears once again, and his face set. They would take Sara nowhere without him. Finally, Officer Johnston caved.  
  
"Don't get too comfortable there, Mr. McGuiness," warned Officer Johnston, and he moved into the room where the two hired men lay unconscious. Just before he passed through the door, I felt Mr. McGuiness grab my shoulder.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," he said under his breath. Then he was gone through the door and down the stairs, following Officer Dobson, Ms. Sara and Watson, presumably to Officer Dobson's squad car.  
  
I sat in a chair by the front door, retreating back to exhaustion, and watched as Officer Johnston and the remaining officer toted the hired men as best they could out the door and down the flights of stairs into their automobile. I sighed and leaned back in the chair, watching as Ron walked into the foyer, but said nothing. The taciturnity of my newfound brother was strange to me, but I smiled.  
  
"So, my young brother," I said, cocking my head to one side, "how long did you know that you and I were related?" Ron on the floor by my side, looking up at me with admiration.  
  
"Since I walked into your flat. I remembered readin' about you, an' you looked so familiar... Y'know?"

"Yes... I do know..." I reached down and patted his head gently. "And if it makes any sense to you, I knew as well. You look so much like our father."

"An' you look like Mum," Ron said with a wide grin. I felt as if all of the joy in me suddenly deflated. Ron saw the change immediately. "What?"

"When was the last time you saw our mother, Ron?" I could feel the stabbing pain that I thought I had left in the orphanage return to my heart. Ron shrugged.  
  
"About two months ago, I guess. She goes off sometimes with some wanker so she can give us some money. She lived on the streets with us, y'know. Like a mum to the whole lot of us." I forced a sad smile. So he didn't know. I pulled him onto my lap.  
  
"Ron... I know where she is."

"Really? Well, you shoulda told her to get her bloody rear back here!" His face was pulled into a wide smile. I hated to make it disappear, but I had no choice.

"Ron, when I lived in an orphanage, our mother's murder was the first case I solved." He didn't seem to understand, so I simply let it come. "She was killed, Ron."

He didn't speak for a long time. His wide brown eyes just migrated to the floor, and they stayed there. The entrance of the inspector from the front door caught my attention, and I stood quickly, placing my brother on seat that I had occupied.  
  
"Inspector, if I did not know better, I would have said that I thought you to be in the kitchen."

"I was 'till I saw your Mr. Heyman down there in the bloomin' alley. Climbed down there all by meself just to find the man's bloody head caved in." He shrugged with a long sigh, replacing his hat atop his balding head. "I'm gonna need a statement from you two. You're the one what called us, ain't you?" He asked, looking to Ron. He looked up and nodded, still contemplating our mother's death. The inspector nodded. "Where can I get a hold of you two if I need to?"

I fished into my pocket and wrote our address on a spare bit of paper I had. His eyes darted up suspiciously to mine when I wrote the words "Baker Street," but he looked away quickly. After I was finished, he placed the slip of paper into his breast pocket and looked as if he was about to leave.

"Excuse me, Inspector," I called after him. He turned. The look on his face was considerably less irritated than it had been upon his arrival. I was pleased. "My friend-" I almost said "Watson" but I figured that his suspicions were already too high to risk it. "My friend John would most likely wish to have your name if he is to write an article about this endeavor." He paused, as if waiting for me to add a punch line, then he raised his eyebrows as if shrugging.  
  
"Lestrade. Warren Lestrade."

He moved out of the door and shifted his hat on his head, muttering something I could not hear. A great bark of a laugh echoed in my head, and for a moment, I thought that it had been Inspector Lestrade, but I realized that it had been Holmes.  
  
"What is so funny this time?" I asked. Ron's head shot up, for he had not heard anyone laugh.  
  
'That the man's progeny never thought to branch from the same dull line of work as their father, grandfather and so on...' He laughed again. 'To think that there may be a Lestrade in Scotland Yard ad infinitum.'

"What was funny, Jack?" Ron asked from the chair, hopping down. I watched him, to see the effects of our mother's death on him, and I was surprised to find no change from the normal, rambunctious urchin I had found just earlier that day. I ruffled his caked and filthy hair.  
  
"Perhaps someday, I will tell you. But today has been far long enough without long explanations. Let us go home." Ron looked taken aback.  
  
"Home? What do you mean?"

"What sort of older brother would I be if I let you starve out on the streets? You are staying with us of course."

For the second time in only as many minutes, Ronald Holmes was struck dumb with silence.  
  
------------  
  
It was my second funeral since the year of 1943 began.  
  
This funeral, unlike the combined funeral of my mother and Isabelle Wright, was formal and had all of the furnishings. I was even required to buy a black suit for the ceremony. I stood, once again, looking into the black hole in the earth as it swallowed up yet another person close to me. Watson stood by my side, his unblinking eyes watching the coffin get lowered into the ground. At his side was Sara McGuiness, her arm linked with his in what appeared to be a painful grip. Her eyes were filled with sad tears. I tore my eyes from them and stepped forward to say what I had been asked to say: a eulogy.  
  
"I hardly knew Neville Richardson." I looked from the coffin to those surrounding it, all of the damp eyes now on me. I could even spot the man's wife's sisters among the grieving. "He came into my life just when I was in need. He told me that it was because my friend and I saved his life that he sheltered us and fed us. In reality, it was he who saved us. Watson and I would not have lasted long in London without Mr. Richardson's guidance and support. I remember his only request to me, when he gave us so much. He wished for me to call him Neville, and not to think of him as my father." I took a deep breath, fighting back the emotions that wanted to come. "So now I say good-bye, Neville, my benefactor, my guardian, and, most importantly, my friend."  
  
With those words, I tossed a great red rose onto the coffin's lid. Other roses followed, and I could see the tears rolling down Sara's face as she lay hers atop the growing pile. Watson grabbed her hand with his and squeezed it firmly. She could stand it no longer and buried her face in Watson's chest, weeping openly. He embraced her fully, letting her tears come, and even allowing some of his own to fall. I refused to cry. I had done my grieving, enough to last for a lifetime.

At my other side, there emerged not a sound. I looked with a placidness at Ron, who looked at the descending coffin as well, though his rose was clutched tightly in his small fingers. He had cleaned up nicely for a boy living on the streets for all of his life that he could remember. His hair was combed, his face was clean, and he even wore a black suit of new, pristine material. At last, his watery brown eyes blinked, and he was the last to toss the flower onto the casket. I nodded approvingly, and took his small hand in mine.  
  
I did not tell him where I got the money for his suit. And for mine. And for Watson's. I had paid for them all with the money left to me by Mr. Richardson. I had come to the belief that he was a destitute man from his constant stories of how his wife had left everything to "her damned sisters." But when the letter came to me, naming Watson and myself as the sole recipients of his small fortune, I nearly collapsed. As I was 18, I inherited my money on the instant. Watson, who had just turned 15 the week of Mr. Richardson's death, would glean his on the day of his 18th birthday. I remained silent on the issue to Ron.  
  
As we stared at the dirt being shoveled over Mr. Richardson's grave, Ron looked curiously up at me.  
  
"What now, Jack?" He asked me, seemingly devoid of emotion.  
  
"What do you mean, 'What now?'" I asked. "Life is not like a book in the sense that one can simply turn a page and a new adventure will appear from nowhere, Ron." I was silent for a moment, looking on as Watson calmed Sara McGuiness by caressing her hair. "But in a profession like mine, adventure could happen at any time, and we must always be ready for it when it comes."  
  
----  
  
AN: TAH-DAH!! The third part of the series is over! Huzzah for me! I reeeeeeally hope you guys liked the ending of this one, because I would hate to be crucified by angry fans. And yes, I know that Mycroft was older than Sherlock, but... yeah... ALSO!! Tell me if another story would be too much, because I have a 4th story in the making, but if no one wants it but me, then I shall refrain from posting it. Again, thanks to EVERYONE who has supported me through this one, and I hope that you all enjoyed it!  
-The Shoeless One


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